by Dean, Ali
Shay and I both decided to stay on campus to train, but instead of putting in the yardage and hours in the pool, we’re working more on the finer details like starts, flip turns, and stroke technique, rather than building speed and stamina. For me, this kind of training is harder, because it takes more focus and concentration. I can’t fake my way through it. But it’s good for me, and Shay is here with me. I want to support her any way I can as she tries to make it as a pro, and being by her side is the only way I know how.
It was a fight with Shay that hit me like a wake-up call. Months ago, on the way home from winter break, we’d blown up at each other. We hadn’t fought, really fought, like that in ages. Maybe never. We said harsh words to each other, words meant to hurt. I’d told her that being her sister sucked because she set an impossible standard. She confessed she wanted to try going pro after college instead of following the finance career Mom was pushing on her, that was expected of her. Shay told me she felt the pressure to be the perfect child because I didn’t try at anything. I lashed back at that, but the thing is, there was truth there. I’d held this dual admiration and resentment of Shay for years. It was mostly admiration, but the resentment was there. But then she asked me what I would do if she quit swimming and dropped out of college. I thought about it. I still think about it. If she suddenly became the family fuck-up, all the attention, expectations, pressure, would turn to me.
I would absolutely hate that.
It made me see, that’s what Shay lives with. And even if our mom thinks I’m a loser for not doing great at school or having a plan for my future, or partying too much, these eighty thousand Instagram followers think otherwise. Those guys who wanted me, fell for me, they let me pretend I was special for a few minutes, hours, days. Whatever time I gave them before I cut them off, not wanting to give them a chance to get any deeper, change their minds about wanting me.
Now I’m realizing that, even if Shay’s words hurt me, she was right. My self-worth can’t be wrapped up in what other people think, or their standards for me. Whether it’s my parents, my sister, my closest friends, a hot hook-up, or tens of thousands of strangers, I have to be able to respect myself. And I can’t get that from half-assing it. So I’m starting with swimming. School, I’m less interested in. But swimming I can do. Plus, it’s been a way for Shay and me to apologize to each other. We don’t need to say we forgive each other for those words we exchanged, because we show it by standing by each other in the pool. I’m trying, and Shay knows it. And I’m doing it in part for myself, but also because this is her dream, and I want to be there for her as she goes for it.
Chapter Nine
Kick
Mom must not be satisfied with the short phone calls we have a couple times a month because she’s increased the email volume. Or maybe she’s freaking out now that Shay isn’t on the “right” career track and turning more of her energy on me. I get at least one e-mail from her daily, if not more. Usually, it’s a link to an article, with no other message beside it, no greeting or explanation as to why she sent it. Occasionally the subject of the email will say something like: “You should read this” or “Check this out.” The articles are things like “Why are so many college grads failing to get jobs?” or “The value of internships” or “Secrets of the most successful college students.” I shouldn’t be surprised, then, when we stay at our parents’ house for a night on the way up to StageFest that it’s me Mom latches on to and hounds with advice, questions, and examples of success stories meant to tell me that I too can make something of myself.
I wish I could tell Mom I have a plan after college, but I don’t. Sure, I’ve got a few ideas, but Mom would hate all of them. Most of my ideas are jobs I made up and will involve working for myself, with no income certainty whatsoever.
“Honey, have you thought about advertising or marketing? That industry is less interested in academic success than other options. They might even find value in the internet pictures you take.” I’m so used to her little digs by now, they hardly register.
“Yep. That is something I’ve considered,” I say, deciding to humor her. We’re leaving after breakfast, in less than an hour. I can make it until then.
Mom’s eyes light up and she sits straighter in her chair. “Oh really? Do you want to talk to my friend Lucinda Beaumont? She’s the CMO of Ventina.” Right, Ventina, the fashion line.
“Nah. If I decide to go the fashion route, Coco has connections anyway.” I know that will rub Mom, which is why I say it. For someone who didn’t take the tried and true path to success, Coco’s doing pretty damn well for herself.
“Yes, well, you can’t count on luck, sweetie. It wouldn’t hurt to have coffee with Lucinda. She can share her suggestions, help you get connected in the marketing world. And I have a couple friends at the big ad agencies in New York. That’s where you’ll need to go if you want to take the advertising route,” she continues, and I’m already wishing I hadn’t mentioned I’d considered the option.
“Mom, I was thinking more about freelancing, not going to a big company or firm or whatever.”
I might as well have smacked her in the face based on that suggestion. But despite Mom’s alarmed look, I continue, “I’ve had dozens of people asking me to advertise their stuff on my Instagram page, even sending me things in hopes I’ll do it voluntarily. Meal delivery services, athletic clothes, concert tickets, stuff like that. I’m trying to build on that with a new website and blog I started, make it into a legit business.” I’m also mulling over the food truck idea that’s been brewing, travel the world with it, getting free hotels and stuff along the way if I keep building my following.
Mom looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Oh sweetie,” she says on a sigh with a twinge of pity. “You can’t actually make a living posting pictures on that little app. You need a real business plan. If you’re interested in business, you need experience with a successful company, maybe an MBA. You can’t build a career based on a social buzz that will die out eventually.” Her tone is patronizing, as if I’m a fifteen-year-old trying to save up for a car with a neighborhood lemonade stand. “When Instagram is replaced by a new social medium, what will you do? Start over? Honey, you can do that on the side, but you can’t rely on it. It’s just not realistic.”
My throat feels dry as I try to swallow toast, and I have to wash it down with juice.
Shay and Jett walk in then, back from the gym. I might be trying to keep up with Shay in the pool, but waking at five AM when even Coach Mandy suggested a few days off is just beyond my capabilities. At least I’m up on time to hit the road by nine, like we planned. I didn’t catch up with friends and party last night, instead resting in preparation for the weekend. If this is the only music festival I’m going to this summer, I better make it count.
The three of us pile into Jett’s pickup, and the tension in my chest releases slowly as we drive away from the house, windows down, music blaring. Mom knows exactly how to take me down a notch, put me in my place. But I’m trying, really trying, not to let her get to me. The instinct to find a guy to fill the hole, make me feel wanted, it’s still there, but I’m not going to act on it. Because at the end of the day, I’m the one who has to live with myself, and Mom’s opinion of my life and choices isn’t the one that matters most.
* * *
As we wait in a line of cars leading to the festival’s entrance, the buzzing anticipation has me grinning. While falling in love with live music, letting it take over your body and soul for the night, is a different experience than being with a guy, it’s a similar addiction. The rush, the sense of floating away from reality, even if just for a moment, the high that comes when it hits just right. Yeah. Good live music is replacing the casual hook-ups just fine. I don’t have power over it, or even the illusion of power, like I can get from a hook-up, but lately, I’ve been finding a different kind of peace in giving that up.
I roll down my window, trying not to think about Jack Kingston. He’ll be here,
but with a hundred thousand people on the grounds, we won’t run into each other unless I make it happen.
As if Shay can read my mind, she asks, “You think you’ll see Jack Kingston here? Kings of Sound are on tomorrow.”
She turns around from the passenger seat, looking at me with a little hesitancy. I know she wonders what happened with Jack. She was there the night of the concert, saw me approach him in the alley after the show, watched me get all weird when I ran into him at Alpha Chi the next night. But she was falling for Jett, and too wrapped up in him to get on me about Jack. She didn’t forget though, and I know she’s wanted to ask me about it for weeks, as soon as it was announced that Kings of Sounds would be at StageFest.
“I’ll definitely watch the show, but nah, I’m not planning on stalking him in an alley afterward.” I try to keep it light, make fun of myself by acknowledging my actions in the past weren’t always normal.
She turns back around, but not before I notice the slight frown of disappointment. Which is weird. Shay doesn’t know that I’ve had no hook-ups whatsoever in eight months. She knows I’m not partying as much, I’m more focused on swimming, but given she spends half her time at Jett’s place, she’s not exactly keeping tabs on my sleeping habits. Beatrice asked me about it once, but I shrugged it off, said I wasn’t as into it lately, and she hasn’t brought it up since. I think she has her theories and suspicions, Shay probably does too, but they haven’t pressed it.
“You called it with them,” Shay says. “You said they were about to be huge, and you were right.”
“Yeah, the video I took of them that night at the Happy Hollow got a ton of buzz. I think it had a lot to do with my Instagram taking off actually.” I knew it wasn’t the only factor, I had a pretty good following before they came along, but predicting a band was going to be huge right before they got huge, it gave me some credibility. I wasn’t the only one to see it, of course, but along with other accurate predictions about bands going somewhere, or not, over the years, my call on Kings of Sound drew attention.
Stopped in traffic, I have Jett and Shay put their heads together and take a shot, announcing our arrival at the festival on Instagram, and tagging them. Shay’s new Instagram account will catch up and surpass mine in popularity soon enough. “Should I give you guys a celebrity couple name? Like Shett? No, wait. Darker? No, that doesn’t work. Specker? Hmmm. Your names are so good on their own. Jett Decker and Shay Spark. They sound dumb together. No offense.”
Jett laughs. “I want a celebrity couple name with Shay Spark. How about Sparker?”
“Oh, I like it! I’ll start a hashtag.” Before I can begin editing the post, Shay groans in protest.
“Guys, I’m not a celebrity. That’s just embarrassing.”
Jett grabs her hand. “Come on baby, you’re totally a celebrity. Both of you are. When I showed up on campus last fall for the first time, people were talking all about the Spark sisters. You definitely have status at Cal U.”
“Yeah, at Cal U. Not in cyberspace.” Shay crosses her arms. She’s so cute.
“Cyberspace?” I giggle. “Oh, Shay, your dorkiness is so loveable. Hashtag Sparker it is,” I announce, earning a fist bump from Jett and an eye roll from Shay.
I hit send, tagging the venue too, and wanting to tag Kings of Sound, shout out that I’m excited to see them again at a huge venue after seeing them at the Happy Hollow near campus nine months ago. But I don’t. I don’t want Jack to think I still think about him. I don’t want him to think I’m trying to make a connection. Jack probably doesn’t even look at the Kings of Sound Instagram account anyway, but still, I can’t risk him knowing he shook loose a piece of me and he’s still got it. I don’t even think I want it back. I think I like knowing he’s got a little piece of my soul with him, whether he wants it or not.
Chapter Ten
Jack
Townie threw an arm over my shoulder as we made our way off the tour bus. “Can you believe this shit? Backstage at StageFest? Rock star status, man. It’s going to my head.”
We’d wandered out of our tour bus to find ourselves in the backstage area of StageFest. It was just a less crowded part of the grounds, with access granted only to band members and their roadies.
“Just spend a night hanging at my place and you’ll come back down where you belong.” By “my place” I meant my mom’s. Yeah, at twenty-four, I still lived with my mom. It was by choice. I’d helped raise Gracie, and it was better for both of them if I was there, helping out and just making our family more complete. For Gracie, but for Mom and me too. There was never a dad in the picture, so I was the man of the house. Not that a household couldn’t function fine without a guy, but we were family, and that was my role.
Townie laughed, releasing me. “You aren’t kidding, man. Gracie had me read her five books, then I had to sing to her, and she said I wasn’t as good as you. When she had you come in to sing, your mom put me to work on the dishes.”
I grinned as I pictured Gracie hassling him and Mom making him do chores. “Damn straight. Worth it for the meatballs though.” We spent a couple days at home before hitting the road again for StageFest. “She had me doin’ yardwork for six hours the next day. Gracie wanted to help so that slowed things down.”
“And now here we are, getting free shit and royalty treatment at the same festival we could barely afford tickets to just a couple years ago.”
We passed one tent offering free massages, another handing out some sort of vegan smoothies with carrot, beets and kale. The backstage area of StageFest consisted of rows of tour buses for musicians, and rows of stands and tents offering free services, food, and even some random free shit like clothes, headphones, cellphone cases. The vendors wanted us to wear their merch, eat their food, drink from their bottles, so that the hundred thousand people outside would want to do the same thing. Not to mention the millions of social media followers some of the musicians here had.
The thought of social media had me reaching for my cell, wanting to indulge in a little cyber-stalking that had become a bad habit I couldn’t seem to break. Not that I was trying very hard to quit.
Townie stopped me from getting a fix when he asked, “Yo, you worried about Carson?” He kept his voice low, and didn’t need to say more. I glanced at Townie and followed his gaze to where Carson was standing by a couple of women.
One of the women angled forward and slipped her hand in his pocket. Townie leaned closer to inform me, “He just gave her cash.”
Sighing, I led us farther from the massage station. Half the people at this festival, including the musicians, were on something, so a little drug deal going down in broad daylight was no big deal. And it wouldn’t be a big deal for most bands if the members got high once in a while. But this was us, and this was Carson, a guy I’d known for more than half my life. For a couple years when the band was new, senior year of high school and freshman year of college, we all smoked weed once in a while. Will and Carson continued to occasionally, but we all wanted to stay away from the harder stuff. It was too cliché. We knew bands who never made it or blew up just as they were about to make it or right after they finally did, and it almost always came back to drugs. Drugs and rock and roll went hand in hand, and while some rockers claimed it made their music better, none of us bought that. If there was any truth in it, the chances of drugs destroying the music eventually were stronger than any momentary creative boost from being high.
So, knowing we were all on the same page and then watching Carson do God-knows-what on the road, it sucked.
“I’m hoping he’ll figure it out on his own,” I told Townie. “You know drugs are everywhere. He’s just messing around. If we give him a hard time, it’ll backfire.”
Townie’s shoulders were tight and he shook his head. “Hope you’re right, man.”
“Hey, don’t be too rough on him, dude. It’s like you with the women. You can’t get enough of the attention but eventually it’ll get old.” I hoped it worked that way with
the drugs, but I wasn’t so confident.
Townie laughed. “Don’t think so. I got a lotta years ahead of me before that happens.”
Women didn’t ruin bands like drugs did. Sure, there were a few we all knew about, but it wasn’t a problem I worried about. Besides, none of us had anyone serious. For the moment.
And, cue bringing up my Instagram app again. Yeah. I could barely go a few minutes without thinking of her. It was an addiction.
Townie was the only one who knew about it. He’d caught me one too many times. He shook his head and I shrugged as he walked to a booth giving away backpacks.
I wasn’t actually one of Kick’s followers. Yeah, it was pathetic, but I didn’t want her to know I still thought about her, remembered her. Which was dumb, because I did hold out hope I’d run into her again, somehow, someway. It was also dumb because she had eighty thousand followers. Doubt she’d notice me. Anyway, I had to search for her account every time I did this.
I was walking slowly as I brought up her account, but stopped when I saw the photo. Her sister and Jett Decker in a car. About to enter StageFest.
“Yo, Townie!” I called over to him. “Let’s check out the rest of the festival. You know, hang with the riff raff.”
Townie glanced over his shoulder at me, backpack slung over it, already on his way to the booth with watches. “You serious? This shit might be picked over tomorrow,” he said, though he didn’t sound too worried.